


A miss is as good as a mile

by Naraht



Series: Skinner and Browne Investigate [4]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Air Force, Disguise, Gen, NASA, Nebraska, Washington D.C., Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, bureaucrats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2010-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naraht/pseuds/Naraht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A miss is as good as a mile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aedh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aedh/gifts).



> For vescoiya, Christmas 2008. This one is ripped from the headlines as usual. Sort of.

"I saw two shooting stars last night  
I wished on them  
But they were only satellites..."

\--Billy Bragg, "A New England"

***

Somewhere over the Earth, a satellite tumbles out of control.

It is the size of a school bus, weighted down with toxic propellants, carrying a cargo of secrets so vast that the military would kill to protect them. It spins slowly, dull glints of sun reflecting from its torn thermal blanket. With every orbit it heats up, the gossamer friction of the upper atmosphere dragging it inexorably back down to Earth.

Two weeks. That is the time naturally remaining to it, as calculated by the men at U.S. Strategic Command.

They're hoping to speed up the process.

***

One hundred twenty miles below, Jay Browne sits at his desk in Washington DC, looking over the plans for yet another probe that will probably get canceled before it ever reaches the factory floor. There's something oddly restful about it. Browne doesn't need to go to the library to get his fill of science fiction. He reads it at work every day.

Only two hours till lunch. Only eleven years until retirement.

His peaceful reverie is interrupted by a knock at the door. Authoritative and impatient. It has to be Skinner. The Deputy Assistant Administrator for Special Projects doesn't get many other visitors.

"It's open."

Skinner strides in, cell phone held to his ear. He stops short in front of Browne's desk, still listening intently.

"Undeniable proof that aliens are among us?" He nods. "Right. Right. Look, we'll see what we can find out."

He punches the phone off and slips it into an inside pocket.

"Browne, I've got something for you."

"Let me guess. That was Mulder."

"It was. What's your point?"

Browne leans back in his desk chair, looking up at his investigative partner and notional superior.

"Don't you think it's strange the way he's always giving you assignments? I mean, you used to be his boss. Did you let him pull this sort of shit on you then?"

Skinner's jaw works a little bit, the way it always does when he's annoyed but doesn't want to say anything.

"All right," says Browne finally. "What is it?"

"USA-42. Top of the line spy satellite. It was deployed eight years ago, went silent a few days afterwards. They haven't been able to communicate with it since. Now the orbit is decaying and the intelligence people are worried about where and under what circumstances it's going to re-enter the atmosphere."

Not a name he's heard in a while. Browne nods.

"I put that satellite in orbit."

"You...?"

"Well, not me personally. Shuttle mission; I was lead flight director. Not that they ever told us anything went wrong. I washed my hands of it as soon as it was out of the payload bay. What's the problem? Can't the NSA people handle their bird?"

"They can handle it all right. They're planning to shoot it down."

Browne's chair comes upright with a thump. He stares at Skinner.

"They what? What the hell?"

"Officially, I've been told that the hydrazine fuel onboard is toxic. They're concerned for the safety of populated areas underneath the ground track. Mulder, on the other hand, believes that the National Security Agency is trying to protect classified information gathered by the spy satellite. He thinks that the hydrazine is just a cover story."

"Never thought I'd say this, but I agree with Mulder."

"You do?"

"Don't look so surprised. Yeah, I do. That's a bullshit story and they know it. The fuel will burn off during re-entry. That's not what's worrying them."

"Mulder's feeling is that it's imperative the satellite is recovered rather than destroyed. And I'm with him, Browne. Whatever this is, it has the feel of something big. I've been looking at it for the past week and no one is giving me a straight answer. Not on how it was disabled in the first place, and not why it's so important that it doesn't re-enter intact."

"And the bit about the aliens?"

Skinner shrugs. "That's just Mulder." He pauses. "We only have two weeks before the NSA takes a Delta II and finishes the job."

"So what are you suggesting here? What's our role?"

"Maybe we can get to it before they do."

Browne is looking at Skinner as if he's just said that he wants to capture Nessie and put it in his goldfish pond.

"If I could get people into orbit in two weeks," he says slowly, "I wouldn't be working this job."

"Can we, uh, sabotage the rocket?"

"Do you know anything about a Delta II?"

"No," Skinner admits finally.

"Well, you're not the only one."

"What do you suggest then?"

"All the thing needs to do," says Browne, feeling the warm glow of technical inspiration beginning to spread, "is miss."

He pulls a piece of paper towards him and begins to scribble.

***

"It's not that unusual," Browne continues later that afternoon. "Hell, we lost a probe in orbit around Mars because some asshole didn't know the difference between miles and kilometers. It's practically standard operating procedure these days."

He looks around them. Even in February the National Zoo is full of people and they're not entirely out of earshot. Two men standing uneasily together as the drizzle falls, hunched under heavy dark coats, obviously not there to see the animals. The only way they could look more suspicious is if they wore signs. Still, at least they're out of the office and presumably out of the range of any bugs that have been installed.

 _Consider the tapir_ , says the sign by the enclosure. There is no tapir to be seen--unlike them, it's smart enough to go in out of the rain--but Browne considers it anyway.

"So how do you make it miss?" Skinner asks.

"How do _I_ make it miss? So I'm doing this now?"

"Do you see anyone else around here who's an expert on orbital rendezvous?"

Drizzle continues to fall from the leaden sky. Browne wonders whether the tapir knows anything it's not telling.

"Fuck you," he replies, but only halfheartedly. He is busy thinking.

In a mood of companionable resentment the two men stroll together down through the zoo. They head for the small animal house, where at least they can get out of the rain. Its concrete corridors are echoey and dim, and the screeches of the little primates are loud enough to mask any classified conversation. Skinner and Browne pause to examine the golden lion tamarins.

"Well?" says Skinner finally, speaking in a low tone as he gazes into the cage.

"Won't be a problem," Browne replies, matching his companion's manner. "All we need to do is get into the database somehow. Change the orbital ephemeris. Move a decimal point, no one will notice until it's too late. And the thing misses."

"Right."

In this sort of discussion, Skinner's role is simply to nod and look thoughtful. He does so.

"But I don't think we can hack into the system from outside," Browne continues. "Too many safeguards. If we could get to USSTRATCOM, find an unguarded terminal... I could manage from there. Probably."

"USSTRATCOM? That's in Nebraska. Inside a bunker on an Air Force base in Nebraska."

"Yeah."

"Tall order, Browne."

"I have faith in you, Skinner."

The golden lion tamarins chatter and fight. Two men set off in search of a decent cup of coffee.

***

Fucking snow. Miles and miles of fucking snow. Just walking from the car to the motel room it gets into his shoes, dusting the cuffs of his pants like so much malevolent sub-zero icing sugar.

"I once got sent on assignment to Bermuda."

"Yeah?" grunts Skinner, sitting on the edge of the bed, more interested in the contents of his briefcase than in Browne's reminiscences.

"That was twenty years ago. And it was only because the ship broke."

No reply.

Browne brushes ineffectually at his pants, then pulls a curtain to one side and looks out the window. The wind is blowing and blowing across the prairie, pulling the snow into the air and sending it swirling everywhere. There's a drift by the window, snow sifting through the screen and piling up against the glass. Nebraska. God help them.

"It's whiter out there than a Ku Klux Klan convention," says Browne dolefully.

Skinner looks up.

"Where you from, Browne?"

"Brooklyn."

"I'm from Michigan. Upper Michigan."

It figures. Letting the curtain fall closed, Browne sighs and goes to start unpacking.

***

Unzipping his garment bag, Skinner takes out two crisply pressed Air Force uniforms. Navy blue, already decorated with rank insignia and service medals. And name tags. Smith and Brewer.

"Shit," says Browne.

"How were you expecting to get in there?"

"Honestly? Hadn't thought about it. That's your job, Skinner."

"Yeah. And this is my solution."

Skinner holds out one of the uniforms to Browne, who accepts it gingerly.

"I guess this'll work," he says.

"Just stick with me and follow my lead."

Skinner pauses, taking a closer look at the man who is slouched somewhat rebelliously in his chair. He looks like an aging Beatle who somehow escaped from Liverpool and wound up doing orbital dynamics at Mission Control.

"And a haircut would help," Skinner adds.

"I have a haircut. Jo does it for me. Are you impugning my wife?"

"You were a peacenik in the 60s, weren't you, Browne?"

"I was too busy putting men on the fucking Moon."

"I guess we'll just wing it," says Skinner resignedly.

***

The hallways of US Strategic Command are long and echoing, glowing with the flat yellow buzz of fluorescent lights, decked with American flags and nondescript landscape photography, and drenched with a palpable sense of triumphalist purpose. Not all that different from Johnson Space Center, really.

Skinner strides down the hall with such authority that even a general would salute and step aside. He doesn't wear the uniform so much as embody it. Browne simply trails in his wake, glancing warily down the crossing hallways, inwardly dreading the cry of 'hands up! stay where you are!'

Because he guesses that these guys don't give more than one warning.

When they get to the door of the data center, Skinner's crisp salute brings the young guard snapping to attention.

"Inspection," grunts Skinner, even more terse than usual.

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

Eyes straight ahead. No questions asked. Which Browne has to envy, in a way.

Inside all is quiet. It is 6 am. Machines hum quietly to one another, bathing the dim room in the blue light of computer screens that are never switched off. Browne breathes a sigh of relief. This is the language that he speaks; these are the creatures that take his orders. It feels good to be a flight dynamics guy once more.

"What do you want me to do?" mutters Skinner in an undertone, his big hands flexing as if he'd like to try pulling the Delta II away from its target himself.

"Nothing. I've got it. It's not like this is rocket science or anything."

Skinner frowns, then gives Browne a sharp look. Browne maintains his poker face.

Casting his eyes around the room in search of the flight dynamics computer, Browne spares a thought for the poor bastard who's going to catch all hell later this morning, when the Delta II sails merrily past its intended target into a nice wide eccentric orbit. The one thing worse than screwing up is not being able to figure out how you did it. And not knowing that someone else did it for you.

For him, thankfully, the task is easier. Only one way to score a bull's eye... but there are a thousand ways to miss.

Browne takes a seat at the computer terminal and begins to type, dimly aware of Skinner shifting uneasily in his peripheral vision.

"Is everything, uh, where you expected it to be?"

"Yeah. Unless they changed the gravitational constant when I wasn't looking. Sure."

Once he's into the system, it's the work of only a few keystrokes to put the decimal point somewhere that mother nature wasn't intending. From here, the numbers will trickle down the pipe to the Delta II steaming on its pad at Vandenberg. Into the tiny brain of the inertial guidance system, and then off they go.

All in a day's work for a steely-eyed missile man.

Browne cracks his knuckles and leans back for a moment of admiration.

"And there we go."

"That's it?" asks Skinner skeptically, leaning down to gaze at the impenetrable numbers glowing steadily on the screen.

"You wanted a countdown? Sirens? Big red button that says _do not press_?"

"No, just..."

"Then let's get the hell out of here."

Halfway to the door, they hear voices outside. Thankfully the guard is more chatty when faced with someone he knows, because otherwise they would have blundered right into the middle of who-knows-what. And that doesn't sound like such a good idea right now.

Browne spots the utility closet and opens the door. Skinner shoves him in and follows, pulling the door closed behind them. They're lost in a wilderness of ethernet cables and dusty old keyboards. Holding his breath, Browne prays that he won't sneeze. Then he wishes that Skinner's shoulders were a little less broad.

The door opens. An officer stares at them. Browne sneezes.

At first the man looks surprised to see a couple of high-ranking men crammed into a closet together. Then a conspiratorial smile spreads across his face.

"Don't worry," he says. "I won't tell anyone. Enjoy yourselves."

And he closes the door and walks away.


End file.
